


the world has changed for me

by jasondean



Series: a world we never asked for [1]
Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, my poor gay kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasondean/pseuds/jasondean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wendla grieves moritz, her childhood, and something else she cant quite name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world has changed for me

sometimes, she sneaks out of her house early in the am just to lie on the scratchy grass and gaze at the stars.

her hair is tangled in a mess behind her like seaweed on the oceans shore, and blades of grass tickle her bare legs. her hands rest behind her head, providing herself with a pillow, one that isnt just made of the bare weeds and dirt beneath her. she feels itchy, itchy all over, but it doesnt bother her as she looks up at the star speckled sky. she can feel. all wendla has ever wanted is to just _feel_.

wendla is a good girl who dresses in whatever clothes thrown her way by mama, who goes to church every weekend, who watches the neighbors three young children without so much as a complaint. she smiles at townspeople as she makes the trek to school and skips stones across the stream with her friends, letting tinkling giggles float across the air.

she is a good girl.

she _is_.

_then why, god, do i feel so dirty?_

the fluttering in her stomach has not stopped. it has been a nonstop pitter-patter ever since the night in the hayloft. the sinking in her stomach has been as present as anything else, like she swallowed a stone. she feels heavy. she feels her skin crawl, even without the dead grass against her skin, even without the memory of melchiors light fingertips dancing on her. 

tracing the seams of her dress down to her legs, ripping open the buttons her mama had only just sewn back on, snaking up her dress, up her panties, her audible, alarmed gasp of his name not deterring him in the slightest.

mama used to love telling tales of the stars to wendla as a little girl, as she sat atop her knee in a wooden chair so old it was claimed to be made by her great grandfather. she imagines her mothers voice in her ear now, whispering softly the tales of how the constellations were stuck to the sky. she remembers looping her pinkie with mamas, making a promise not to speak about the stories to papa, because there was never any god involved when mama and wendla looked at the sky. she remembers the soft rocking of the chair with a smile, mamas steady voice rocking her to sleep.

they sold the chair eons ago. mama no longer tells wendla stories of any kind. the only talk of stars is from melchior, who rambles on and on about luminous gases and explosions and black holes.

she watches the stars twinkle, remembering how in the stories, the constellations were sometimes of mortals who had died but needed to be immortalized. her mind immediately wanders to moritz and she finds herself searching the stars for a shape resembling a person. she knows it foolish, because stories are only stories, and there are no people in the stars, and if there were, moritz, ever unimportant, would not be among them.

but the thought of him still here is comforting to her. and there is no harm in wishing. so she closes her eyes with the imprint of those stars, memorized by the explosions behind her lids. 

the day before it was discovered that moritz shot himself, wendlas mind was free of the boy as she lay in the gabors hayloft. she squeezes her eyes shut even tighter as she remembers the friction, the heat of skin on skin. 

melchiors hands feel foreign and rough when only yesterday they felt like home as they held her own, escorting her back to her house from the daydream tree by the river. their breaths are steep. wendla tries to focus on melchiors beating heart, and let that fill her ears completely, getting rid of the frightening sound of her own quickened pulse. her eyes are open as he kisses her, and she is frozen, ice crawling down her spine. she forces her eyes closed and all she sees is stars. saliva passes between them, melchiors teeth graze against her bottom lip, and still all she sees is stars.

its hard to focus on the stars and not on melchior, but she manages. one of his hands is on her right breast, the other up the hem of her dress. she remembers beginning to protest as his lips move from hers to her neck, then to her bare chest, opening her eyes wide. "melchi, what are you doing?" she asks, her voice shaking, like she might cry at any moment. she holds back the tears. she doesnt understand why they even come in the first place.

"trust me," he says, his warm breath against her skin making her shiver. her eyes go shut again when she feels his hand move to lift the hem of her dress, the other one moving under her underwear. she feels like shes choking on her own breathing when she feels him, one finger, two fingers.

"st-stop," she asks. "stop, melchi," she whines. she feels exposed. hot. gross, gross, gross. "what are you doing? what are you doing?" she pleads with him as his mouth moves to her neck again. he lifts his head and looks at her.

melchior has the most beautiful, deep brown eyes. her view of them is obscured by tousles of mousy brown hair, but she clearly sees the determination -- the curiosity -- all painted on his face. "i love you," he says softly. wendla takes in a shaky breath as she feels his fingers pump, in, out. "i love you," he repeats again, voice steady.

"and i love you," wendla replies, tears in her eyes. she doesnt want the closeness to go away. she doesnt want melchi to go away. but she doesnt want... whatever  _this_ is. she has a sinking feeling that whatever it is, it cannot be taken back. but she loves him so. thats what she tells herself.

his slippery fingers leave to pull down her panties, and she sucks in another shaky breath. melchior goes back to kissing her with the same hunger and passion that both intrigues and scares her. she feels small, so, so small. autopilot takes over when melchior sits up to slide off his trousers and his own underwear, and she kisses him back, she lets her hands roam over his clothed back, feeling his muscles tense.

and it feels good, in the moment, in the instincts of what occurs. its blissful, and she cries out, her head thrown back against the hay and the wood. his name is on her lips and it doesnt matter, nothing matters, because here she is with melchior, the most handsome, clever boy in town. her friend. her love. she believes it. she believes it all.

her eyes are closed tight, so tight she sees a night full of stars. she hears melchiors heartbeat and his heavy breathing, his soft moans progressively getting louder and filling up the whole place with the animalistic noise. _wendla, wendla, wendla._ hes been saying it the whole time, her name, like a heavenly chant. now, he is silent, save for the moans and gasps and grunts, and a whisper on his lips that she cant quite detect. his lips mumble around something, a word, a phrase, she cant tell. if only she could take a look into his mind and shed know --  _moritz, moritz, moritz._

wendlas mind is numb while her body works. thats the only way she can describe it, numb. she figures it so because she cant feel a thing emotionally, and the morning after, she cant remember the act in the slightest. 

(and perhaps it was better that way)

"melchior!" she cries out as a climax rips through her body, sending shivers down her spine and colors in her mind. "i dont--i, i--" she says, her eyes wide open once more, watching melchiors own face as he stiffens, letting his head rest on her shoulder.

"f--fuck--moritz--moritz, im coming," he gasps.

"what?" wendlas voice squeaks, bewildered. autopilot has been switched off and she is the same scared little girl she has always been, and the reality of what is happening hits her like two tons of bricks. 

 _moritz... he said moritz... i have not seen moritz in ages,_ she remembers thinking as melchior recovers, pulling out. the magic of the orgasm has vanished completely from melchiors face and an expression of horror replaces it.  _why did he say moritz? i am not moritz. moritz is no where near here._ it is not until later, when they lie on their backs watching the ceiling, does wendla even attempt to put the pieces together. she comes up empty, altogether clueless. 

tears prick at her eyes and she feels them running down her flushed cheeks. she chokes back a sob as the built up flood begins.

"wendla? why are you crying? have i hurt you?"

"no, n-no, melchi," she says, her voice trembling. she weeps, and weeps, ignoring melchiors burning gaze on her. he is quiet, for once in all of the time wendla has known him. he is pale, quiet, unsure. she is right. something she can never take back. she cries for the loss of something she hasnt even yet begun to understand.

then, the next day, moritz was discovered lifeless in the snow with his head blown off. when they recieved word, wendla witnessed melchiors late tears held back from the night come to the surface with the news. something he can never take back. 

wendla finally opens her eyes when her head begins to ache with the effort combined with the recollection of memories. she sits up, grass covering her backside. she continues to stare, but she no longer looks at the stars, or anything else, really.

"wendla?"

she jumps to her feet when she hears a voice, and turns to find a familiar girl with long locks of golden hair in an worn down coat and a dress torn and sprinkled with splatters of dried paint. no smile comes to wendlas face with her recognition of the stranger.

"ilse."

the other girl moves closer, a smile lighting up her fair face. "oh, wendla! you gave me a fright, with the way you were looking. i thought you might be the next moritz." her humor falls flat, and wendla shakes her head quickly.  _too soon, always too soon,_ she seems to say in the motion. as ilse gets closer, wendla sees her expression isnt carefree and joyful, but bitter. her smile looks off and wendla cant bring herself to meet her gaze.

"i found him, you know," ilse says, the humorless grin disappearing from her face. "he was all alone." as if wendla didnt know that detail.

"what are you doing here, ilse?" wendla asks, finally making eye contact with the eccentric girl. they have only been apart for a couple of years but ilse looks completely grown up. perhaps ilse can say the same for wendla. memories of different kinds haunt both of their gazes.

"i came back for the funeral. i can handle sleeping in the streets for a few nights if it means getting to bid adieu to a friend," she says with a shrug. wendla remembers being pulled away by her mother after the service and turning around to catch a glimpse at the flowers strewn across the boys grave. a figure loomed over the fresh burial, dropping one last flower on moritzs final resting place.

wendla looks down, and takes ilses hands in hers. she squeezes, and ilse squeezes back. she tries to ignore the tears welling in her eyes. 

"i wish you could stay," wendla says with a sniffle. "i wish moritz was here. i wish... i wish we were all twelve again, playing tag a-and swimming in the creek... playing pirates..." she says, silent tears streaming down her face. melchior was always captain, and moritz was always first mate. wendla and ilse were always the sailors who did all of the hard work of looting. back then, they held hands and exchanged kisses and watched the clouds move by and it was all okay. neither of them remember when exactly it was the adults deemed the childrens affection to be inappropriate.

but, the love never stopped. wendla recalls the shuddering of melchiors body, the heat radiating off him, all as he screamed moritzs name. 

"me too, wendla," ilse says gently. "but its impossible. look, i need to go, alright?" she breathes, her heart breaking as she watches the other girl cry. she gives wendlas hands another squeeze.

wendla remembers long days with ilse and the boys. she remembers promising to marry ilse when they grew up, and ilse replying with laughter because two women cannot marry, with puppy love or not. she remembers later that same day opening the door to melchiors room to ask for something or other and discovering he and moritz embracing, kissing, all more intimately than the motions displayed between the children while they ran free outdoors playing pretend. she remembers experimentally kissing ilse on her thirteenth birthday, trying to mimic melchior and moritz, nervous but not uncomfortable. she remembers ilse being pried from her life the very next week as rumors about her father flooded the town.

"no," wendla breathes. "no, ilse," she says again. "please..."

"i must be going, really, wendla. im sorry."

"then take me with you."

ilses eyes widen. "wendla, no."

"please," she begs. "there is nothing left for me here."

and it is the truth. moritz is dead -- in the ground, not with the stars. melchior does not love her, not the way he wants her to believe, and she doesnt either. she cant stand the loneliness, the crying herself to sleep, bathing for hours just to attempt to scrape the invisible dirt off of her skin. no adults understand. 

there is no ilse here. and ilse is all that is left.

 

**Author's Note:**

> was this any good lol i dont think so sorry


End file.
